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Je crie, donc je suis

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Sa Majesté Louis Catorze, Le Roi Soleil, supreme ruler of Le Château, sworn enemy of canine foe and scourge of Ocado delivery drivers.

  • L’été, la nuit, les bruits sont en fête

    Our lovely poppies are out. (Apologies for the background noise; someone decided to have an altercation with a magpie, just as I started recording.)

    Louis Catorze’s summer mode has been activated. Well, it’s been Catorzian Summer Time for a little while now, to be honest; it hasn’t just happened now, in time for the summer solstice. But he has just stopped eating breakfast, a classic sign that his body clock has changed.

    This is partly because he’s naturally unhungry in the warmer months, but also because he’s up late for Boys’ Club, and Cat Daddy may have* been dishing up extra-large portions of nocturnal snacks. 

    *I say “may have” because, due to the involvement of copious amounts of alcohol, nobody is quite sure. 

    CST doesn’t stop Catorze from REQUESTING breakfast. He sits by his bowl, with his tail wrapped neatly around his feet, creepy-staring at me. But, when I serve him, he pitter-patters off outside, not coming back to his food for several hours. 

    Cat Daddy: “I think he likes the reassurance of just knowing there will be food when he comes back.”

    I don’t suppose Charles Darwin would have seen any sense in saving food for later, in a non-secure location, whilst the animal went gadding about. But then I don’t suppose his studies extended to alien cryptids like Catorze, either. 

    Here he is, enjoying his favourite season of the year: 

    The Sun King on his patio.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Rien ne brûle plus que le froid

    Living with such a weird cat as Louis Catorze means that we are often asking, “Why?”

    We ask him. We ask ourselves. Sometimes we even ask the mysterious, invisible forces that control the universe. Sadly, we are yet to receive any kind of answer. 

    We ought to be used to this by now yet, a couple of days ago, we were forced to hurl out our most urgent “WHY?” so far. For Catorze, on that fine day, chose a freezer bag as his latest sleeping spot: 

    Cheeky sod snarled at me as I took this picture.

    I won’t bother to bore you with the long list of sleeping spots that he already has, because you know all those already. I’ll just leave you to do as we are, and ask, “Why?”

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Un nouveau mode de vie (Partie 7) 

    When I came downstairs yesterday morning, Louis Catorze was out cold on the sofa in the kitchen. I talked to him, to make sure he was still alive, and he lifted his head and let out a breathy, feeble “Mwah”, before going back to sleep again. 

    Nope – he’s out.

    Don’t worry, he wasn’t ill. In fact, I knew exactly what had happened: the little sod was exhausted after an extended, late-night Boys’ Club the night before. And nothing, not even Armegeddon, was going to shake him out of it. 

    I did my usual early morning kitchen things, including using the coffee maker, which is loud enough to rouse most people from a catatonic state. NO REACTION FROM CATORZE. It then dawned on me that, perhaps, this would be a good opportunity to give him his thyroid medication. 

    I crept around like a stealthy ninja, opening cupboards and assembling my arsenal of thyroid medication paraphernalia in absolute silence. Then, when I laid the rubber glove on the kitchen worktop, it made a barely-perceptible flick sound. 

    Oh dear.

    In an instant, Catorze’s head whipped around like a Jurassic Park velociraptor. And he was off, out through the cat flap and into the Zone Libre, where he knew perfectly well that I’d never be able to catch him.

    Remind me, for long do we have to keep doing this? What? For the rest of his life, y’say? 

    Bastard cat.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La Fête des Pères

    Cat Daddy was supposed to be away at a music festival this weekend but, because of his knee injury, he’s stuck here. 

    I am trying to cheer him up by bringing a festival vibe to Le Château – listening to the bands that he would have seen at the festival, pouring him warm, flat beer with bits of grass in it, making him queue for thirty minutes for the toilet, that kind of thing – but I can tell that he’s disappointed. He’d rather be at the festival than being screamed at by an abnormally small, toothy Chat Noir. In fact, wouldn’t we all?

    Louis Catorze is, obviously, delighted to have his papa here. Cat Daddy, not so much. 

    A bit of quiet time with a book.

    Cat Daddy has always been highly embarrassed about the fact that I refer to him as Cat Daddy. The only reason he puts up with it, other than not being able to do anything about it, is because very few of the followers of Le Blog know him, so he can hide behind a mysterious cloak of (relative) anonymity. He thinks that people who refer to their pets as children are absurd and, if ever I suggest that he is Catorze’s daddy, he retorts, “I am NOT. He is a cat and I am a human. I am his male feeder.” 

    So, having asked Catorze, “Has your daddy fed you?”, nothing gave me more smug pleasure than having Cat Daddy reply, “No, I haven’t yet”. 

    Ha. Cat Daddy has owned up to being Cat Daddy. This is proof that he loves his boy, and now the world knows it. 

    Here is one of my favourite pictures of Catorze and his DADDY (not “male feeder”), taken in 2020. If you and your furry overlords are celebrating Fathers’ Day tomorrow, I hope you enjoy your weekend as much as this:

    Papa-fils goals.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Je crie, donc je suis (Partie 2)*

    *It’s Partie 2 because this is the second time I’ve used this title. It’s clearly not the second time Louis Catorze has ever screamed.

    This is the face – and voice – of someone who has ignored me since I returned home after being out all morning, but who wants to be my friend now that I am making mackerel pâté: 

    For the love of God, MAKE IT STOP.

    I offered him some Orijen, but that was met with one sniff and his “Go home; you’re embarrassing yourself” look. Catorze may be thicker than a concrete milkshake, but even he knows that what I’m offering isn’t the thing emitting the sublime fishy fragrance. 

    Anyway, I was forced to eat my snack standing up. And, even when it was all gone, Catorze wasn’t done; the sublime fishy fragrance still lingered, and the little sod alternated between glaring, suspicious sniffing and more screaming, in an effort to guilt me into revealing where I had hidden the mackerel. 

    Cat Daddy, resignedly and without looking up from his phone: “He’s like this all the time, and he’s getting worse.”

    This is true. But, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t help. It simply leaves us as we were before, except with a strange ringing in our ears and a few more years taken off our lives. 

    Bastard cat. 

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Un sac débile

    What an absolute cirque de merde of a weekend we have just had. 

    Cat Daddy had booked our car for an MOT at a service centre some distance from where we live now, yet not far from the first house that he and I shared together years ago. So our plan was to leave the car and kill some time going for a lovely, nostalgic walk through our old haunts. 

    It went well for a while. Well, the weather was shit at first, but then the storm clouds cleared to reveal turquoise skies and glorious sun. However, the earlier rain had turned part of our walking route into a death trap, and the combination of this plus substandard shoes caused poor Cat Daddy to slip, injuring his knee. 

    The rucksack that he was carrying ended up scraped across the muddy ground underneath him, and needed a good wash when we came home. And, naturellement, as it dried outside, a certain little sod couldn’t resist: 

    Louis Catorze has chosen some odd places to sleep over the years, and a slightly-damp rucksack, with uncomfortable zips and hard toggles, is the weirdest of the lot. That said, if he ever started to make sense, it would either mean that Armageddon were nigh or that someone had swapped him for another black cat.

    Here he is, enjoying his new bed: 

    What the actual …

    *EDIT: the car failed its MOT. And, when we got on the bus to return to the car service centre, the bus driver accelerated so suddenly that it gave me whiplash and I still have pain in my neck and shoulders. So the day was a true disaster in every sense.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La vie en noir

    What are the most important things needed to live a good life?

    Caffeine, books and the love of a devoted cat. 

    I’ll let you know when I find the last one. 

    Big Brother is watching us.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Dix ans d’esclavage

    Le Blog is ten years old today. I can’t believe it; I never thought Louis Catorze would still be being a massive shite providing me with material, all these years after that very first post.

    Here are quatorze of my favourite Catorzian escapades from over the years, in no particular order: 

    1. Bird on the wire(less headphones). 
    2. Our first dinner Chez Oscar the dog. 
    3. The curly-haired rat.
    4. Screaming, then being escorted off the premises (someone else’s, not ours).
    5. More antics with Oscar.
    6. The Curious Case of the Rat and the Cleaning Lady.  
    7. The beautician’s first visit. 
    8. The slug. Eurgh. 
    9. Curfew Part 1. 
    10. Curfew Part 2. 
    11. Curfew Part 3 aka Cat Daddy drops the ball. 
    12. What The Postman Saw.
    13. The hairy-gileted mouse.
    14. More screaming, more mice.

    I hope that you enjoyed the journey back through time. Dare I imagine ten more years of him? Of THIS?

    My all-time favourite Catorzian photo. No AI here; I really did spread out a huge French flag and plonk him on top.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La vraie nourriture du diable 

    Describe your dream chocolate bar.

    Louis Catorze doesn’t eat chocolate. However, if he WERE chocolate, he would be a Montezuma’s Absolute Black 100% chocolate Easter egg: dark, pungent, and hollow inside. 

    Yes, I know that the question specified a DREAM chocolate bar. Nobody said it had to be a good dream.

    Catorze is the one on the right.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • L’équilibre travail-vie personnelle (Partie 2)

    What jobs have you had?

    Louis Catorze would never knowingly work for a living. However, over the years, he has held the following posts at Le Château: 

    1. Alarm clock 
    2. Hot water bottle 
    3. Inclement weather broadcaster
    4. General town crier  
    5. Pest exterminator (Cat Daddy: “WHAT? He’s the worst pest of them all!”)

    Catorze continues to perform roles 1 to 4 on a regular basis. However, the fate of role 5 is in question as he hasn’t caught anything for some time. 

    Both the rescue and Catorze’s foster mamma sold him to us as a non-hunter, so it was something of a surprise when he produced such horrors as this. Yet, so far this year, Catorze has caught a total of 0 (zero) birds and 0 (zero) rodents. 

    Has the little sod permanently hung up his hunting boots? Or is broadcasting the diminishing body count the quickest and most certain way of resuming it?  

    Nah, nothing to worry about here. Ahem.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Se bronzer comme un Roi

    When it’s 21°C outside and you’re a black animal covered in fur, you might feel like cooling down. Even if you’re a Sun King. 

    Catorze sought out this thin strip of shade, about 15cm wide/long (depending on whether you’re a portrait or a landscape kind of person), underneath our outdoor table. He did his best to squeeze into it but couldn’t quite fit, possibly on account of his recent chubbing up. 

    Gotta tan those legs.

    The little fat sod bravely bore these hostile desert conditions for about, erm, ten minutes before adjourning to the more comfortable cat plinths above, where he was fully shaded:

    That’s better.

    And that is where he remained, until Cat Daddy went outside to relax in peace. Catorze, straight in like a heat-seeking missile, made sure he failed in his mission. 

    Whilst 21°C isn’t far off a Dantean hellfire for us Brits, this is by no means the worst it gets here. We have suffered temperatures much higher, including that one apocalyptic day when it was 40°C a couple of summers ago. Yet, when it’s THAT hot, Catorze isn’t quite warm enough and seeks out sunbathing spots. 

    No, we don’t understand it, either. Our place is just to serve the Sun King, not to question his affairs. 

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • Quand il pleut, cherchez les arcs-en-ciel

    Most cats dribble whilst purring. However, with Louis Catorze, because of his protruding fangs which prevent his mouth from fully closing anyway, the problem is much worse. And, when he shakes his head after a massive purring session, it’s like monsoon season in the tropics. 

    I’ve never had any photographic evidence of this, until now. It would actually be strikingly pretty, were it not so gross: 

    Aww. And also eww.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La pluie tombe plus fort sur un toit percé

    Cat Daddy checked the weather forecast and saw that it was about to rain, so he started bringing in the cushions from the outdoor sofa. However, Louis Catorze was lounged across two of them. (He’s a tiny cat so he fits perfectly well on one, but he always lies across two.) 

    He thinks the sofa is for him.

    Me: “You can’t dislodge him. Look how comfortable he is.”

    Cat Daddy: “But it’s going to rain later.”

    Me: “Just leave these two cushions for now, and bring them in later.”

    Him: “We’ll forget.”

    Me: “We won’t!” 

    I went to bed early, leaving Cat Daddy responsible for remembering the task. You can see where this is going, can’t you?

    I was awoken at 5:50am by the most infernal Catorzian screaming. As you are very much aware, he screams a lot anyway so this isn’t news. However, first thing in the morning, Catorze usually has the decency to tone it down, giving relatively few utterances at moderate volume. On this occasion, it was urgent, full-blast and relentless. I bet there are prison klaxons which are gentler and more pleasant than this particular sound. 

    After fifteen minutes of trying to ignore it, I was wide awake. I shuffled downstairs, fed the little sod, conducted my usual morning ritual of electrolytes plus fruit with yogurt plus collagen coffee, all the while cursing Catorze for his rude awakening. 

    I then realised that it was raining outside. The wake-up screaming wasn’t urgent, full-blast and relentless simply because Catorze is a massive shite (although that certainly plays a part). It was his “Il Pleut!” scream.

    Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: because Catorze loves the rain, he has been known to scream to announce it, and his “Il Pleut!” scream is distinctly different from the other screams in his extensive repertoire. He was delivering my own personal weather update.

    I should have known this. But, instead, I ignored it.

    And – not that this is much of a plot twist, because you’ll all have seen this coming like a high-speed freight train – Cat Daddy had, indeed, forgotten to bring in the cushions. Had I listened to Catorze at the time that he first raised the alarm, I could have saved them. 

    Anyway, the cushions are now indoors and drying off, not that there’s much point because it has stopped raining. And, because Catorze loves the rain, he has gone out to gad about, which means that I can’t find him to do his thyroid medication. 

    I can’t even say “Bastard cat” because he did his duty. It’s the humans who have let the side down this time. 

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com

  • La photographie fige un instant dans le temps

    What are you good at?

    Cat Daddy is a master at both photography and being a massive hypocrite: he has just typed “cat” into his iPhone photo library, and there were 2,615 results. 

    Oui, Mesdames et Messieurs: the person who ridicules me for being obsessed with cats is almost as bad as me (I had 3,525 results, which is more than him but not THAT much more). 

    Cat Daddy handed me his phone and invited me to send any of the photos to myself, for use on Le Blog. Among the many photos I was able to see, before I started laughing at his catness and he got angry and snatched his phone back again, were the following: 

    • Louis Catorze (obviously) 
    • Catus Interruptus from down the road 
    • A fluffy, grey neighbourhood tabby whom I don’t think I’ve ever seen, but Cat Daddy has seen Catorze attacking him at least twice (sorry if this is your cat)
    • Random cats seen during Cat Daddy’s walks 
    • Boys’ Club shenanigans 

    This was my favourite photo of the lot. I imagine alcohol was involved, because it was taken at 2:01am: 

    I see.

    For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com